L'Aimant - Chap 6a (M)
by GiuliettaC
Summary: (M-rated supplement to Chapter 6 of "L'Aimant". Don't read this before you've read Chapter 6 of the main story.) A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation – in more than one sense. Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.


**L'Aimant – Chap 6a (M)**

**Summary:**

(M-rated _supplement_ to Chapter 6 of "L'Aimant". Don't read this before you've read Chapter 6 of the main story.)

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation – in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

Late Sunday afternoon, 5th November, and Sam and Foyle are hoping for better luck with their lovemaking the second time around, before Sam has to leave and go home. It turns into quite an incendiary encounter.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

**Author's Notes:**

This story is a supplement to my serial called "**L'Aimant**". It is posted as a separate fic because of its M rating (the rest of the serial is rated T).

For all other chapters of this fic, including the **T-rated Chapter 6, **to which this is _an addendum_, go to the story entitled, simply, "**L'Aimant**".

...

I make a reference to the ARP and AFS in this. The abbreviations stand for Air Raid Precautions and Auxiliary Fire Service respectively. To learn more, read up about _The_ _Civil Defence Service_ on Wikipedia (or watch Bill Pertwee on _Dad's Army_ ;o).

...

Re the writing: it goes out questionable, _dancesabove_ betas it; it comes back publishable…

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_Sam had made a nest of cushions on the hearthrug. Every piece of stuffed chintz and chenille from around the room was assembled there. The curtains of the living room were already drawn against the blackout, and the table lamps and standard lamp were lit._

_Foyle reclined on one elbow, facing the glowing fire, and drew Samantha to him so that they lay spooned together. "Roman candles," he said._

_"Pardon, Christopher?" Samantha waited for the rest._

_"The fireworks that shoot fountains of sparks and fizzing missiles," he continued. "You asked about them earlier. Called Roman candles."_

_"Yes, I __**like**__ those" said Sam. "My father would put on a grand display every year at the vicarage for the parishioners, and we always used to have some of those."_

_"My favourites, too," said Foyle. _

_"It must be six years since I've seen one. Hitler's really spoiling all the fun." She paused. "Sorry. That must sound so selfish and silly."_

_"Well, you might also want to add that he's destroying lives across five continents, and giving every one of us a glimpse into the mouth of Hell…" Foyle held her close, inhaling through her hair. "But 'spoiling all the fun' is on his list of crimes as well. And so we can't have that. Suggest we engineer our own display."_

_"For the parishioners?" Sam was smiling._

_"For the ornaments," said Foyle. With a quirk of his mouth, he added wryly, "I wouldn't want your father's congregation watching anything that we're about to do."_

* * *

**Chapter 6a (M)**

Their Sunday teatime assignation on the hearthrug had unfolded well. Foyle and Sam had evolved from spooning, fully clothed, via various stages of gradual disrobement, to their current state: a pleasant tangle of naked flesh and limbs, somewhat beleaguered by the temperature differentials of a roaring fire on one side and a chill November evening on the other.

"We need a blanket," concluded Sam. "My left side is roasting, and the right of me is like a block of ice."

"Let me warm you up," offered Foyle, running his left hand down her frozen right side from her shoulder to her knee.

"Mmm. Lovely. Still, some sort of cover wouldn't go amiss." Sympathetically she knew that he was settled and didn't want to move, but there were limits to a naked lady's tolerance, albeit indoors, of an English autumn on the cusp of winter.

"Right." He was up and off her, naked as she remembered him from their first night, but moving freely round the living room, unselfconscious, bending, stretching, hunting for a cover of sorts.

"I thought I had a motor-rug, but there's nothing here. I'll have to go upstairs and fetch the eiderdown," he told her.

"Hurry back," she said, admiring what she saw. "I'm even colder now."

Foyle sprinted up the stairs and grabbed the cover from the double bed. _Forgotten you could move this fast, _he told himself, as he descended quickly to the living room, encumbered by a swelling need.

"Let me help you with that," said Sam, rising eagerly from the nest of cushions on the rug, and in no way referring to the eiderdown draped over his right arm.

"No, I can manage," said Foyle, misunderstanding her intention.

"Christopher, where did you put them?" Her question was a blunt one, removing all equivocation.

"On the table next to the settee," he said.

She leant across and picked a condom from the table, removing it from its paper cover.

"It's rather stiff," she observed, pushing a finger experimentally into the sheath.

"You have to warm them up," he said gently, smiling inwardly at her lack of experience.

"How?"

"Well, either you do this…" he reached and took it from her, stowing it in his armpit, "or you drop it into a glass of warm water."

"Oh," she said. "Quite a to-do, then, isn't it?"

"You could say that."

"So – um – is it warmed-up enough yet?"

"Why don't you come and check?" he raised an eyebrow.

"Don't mind if I do."

She moved closer to him, so they were almost nose-to-nose, and slid a slender hand into his armpit, reaching for the sheath.

"Ticklish?" she asked.

"Nope," he informed her, and his lip twitched.

Sam's other hand delved downwards towards the juncture of his thighs.

"Ticklish?" she repeated, and was rewarded with a helpless gasp.

Sam was satisfied. "So now we bring the two together somehow?"

"That's about the size of it."

"I'm thinking that this one" – she brandished the johnny stolen from his armpit – "must stretch a bit to fit the other one."

"Good work, Detective."

"Thank you, Sir."

Sam sank to her knees, and observed the jutting problem at close quarters.

"We know that these can go off easily," she said.

"On a hair trigger," he nodded agreement, "as we witnessed yesterday."

"Best to contain the explosion, then."

"You have the means at your disposal, Sapper Stewart." He quirked an eyebrow at her, and watched curiously, awaiting her next move.

"It's um, weeping slightly," she observed.

"Does that when it's hungry or excited. Anticipation of a meal."

"I think I might be hungry too, in that case," she gazed up at him quite seriously.

He took a breath and held it. Then exhaled. "Extremely pleased to hear it."

"How does this work, now?" she asked, examining both objects closely.

"Sam, let me…"

"No." She was insistent. "Because I need to learn."

So he showed her, with a patience that belied his growing urgency. And happily for all concerned, the prophylactic dulled his ache enough to buy them time.

He stood there, erect and sheathed, eiderdown still draped over one arm, Sam on her knees before him admiring her handiwork with an almost comically serious fascination for the detail.

"Sam. …Samantha?"

"Mmm?" she dragged her attention away from the mesmeric shape before her eyes and looked up into his.

"We should perhaps lie down now…"

* * *

Foyle was leaning on his elbows, gazing down at her in rapt concentration, his arms hooked under her shoulders. His thrusts were measured, deep and even, ploughing the furrow where his body now aspired to plant its seed.

Sam felt him move within her, and knew a visceral pleasure that threatened to spill over into tears. She fought to hold the tears at bay, however, for fear of causing him alarm. His thrusts increased in pace, and she was simultaneously sinking into ecstasy, and rising to her climax with an exultation that pulled from her a cry of "Oh. My. OHMY. Christopher!" and made her limbs convulse around him, as he lay cradled between her thighs.

Foyle felt it _with_ her, melding them together and banishing the painful memory of their first time. But there was still a nagging sense of duty in him. Though sheathed efficiently inside a layer of industrial latex, he remained a sceptic and was intent on pulling out just shy of fruition.

In preparation for his early exit, he began to chant in his head mantras designed to quell desire and aid withdrawal – and was on the verge of executing the manoeuvre when Sam engaged her legs behind his back, immobilising and preventing him from doing so. In that very instant, Foyle, his mind detached above the paroxysms of completion that shook his body as he came, acknowledged she could truly read his every thought.

* * *

Minutes after, as she lay wrapped in Christopher's arms, Sam stirred beneath his snoozing form, and sniffed inquiringly. "Christopher? Christopher! Can you smell something burning?"

"Mmm – what? Oh, NOT the bloody eiderdown!" Foyle shot up from the hearthrug like a scalded cat to stamp barefoot on the corner of his smouldering quilt.

This impromptu and undignified dance, punctuated by little cries of _Ouch! Damn! _caused Sam to erupt into giggles

"What's so funny?" he growled, rubbing at the soles of his bare feet. "It's the only one I've got to fit the bed, and _you'll_ be sleeping under it."

* * *

And so Encounter Number Two ended with a minor bonfire on the hearthrug, narrowly avoiding intervention from the ARP and AFS.

But on the whole, allowing for the awful smell of singed and smoking duck-feathers, there was a new-found calm about the couple as they kissed and dressed and kissed again. It seemed as if some bargain had been sealed about their future.

* * *

Around six, they roused themselves and cooked their evening meal, sharing a simple dinner round the kitchen table. They ate with just their forks, so they could continue to hold hands throughout the meal.

At nine the time arrived for Sam to return to her digs. Foyle summoned a taxi to convey her home, and rode with her in the rear of the car, sitting sideways-on, his arm extended along the back of the seat, just as he often did in the Wolseley.

Mindful of appearances, Sam sat straight-backed, facing forwards, and held her hands immobile in her lap.

When they arrived outside her lodgings, Foyle reached down for Sam's hand and raised it to his lips. "Tomorrow, business as usual. Don't be late, Miss Stewart."

"You can rely on that, Sir."

When she withdrew her hand to leave the taxi, he felt a tug inside himself, as if a little piece of him was leaving with her.

"Lovely girl, Guv!" offered the cabbie amiably once she'd gone, looking through the rear view mirror at his remaining passenger.

Foyle met the driver's eyes, sizing up the man and the remark. Finding no animus or innuendo there, he smiled and glanced away. "One of a kind," he said.

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

In case you're curious about the withdrawal mantras Christopher was chanting in his head as an ardour-dampener, before Sam foiled his plan to pull out…

"_Like the Nazis out of Paris. Like the Wehrmacht on the run_"

Paris was liberated in August '44, so Nazi withdrawals were sort of on his mind ;o)

* * *

More soon. But you will need to look under the main T-rated story entitled **"L'Aimant"**. This is a stand-alone because it's M-rated.

**GiuC**


End file.
